This Could Be the Downfall
by kylermalloy
Summary: 14x19. It doesn't take long for Jack to lose his composure inside the box. He wants the person he trusts most. Things fall apart.


**While I have mixed feelings about the episode as a whole, the angst of Jack breaking down after trusting Sam so wholeheartedly was too good to pass up.**

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It's dark.

Jack can feel the metal all around him—it's cold. It seeps through his clothes, through his skin. Sends little shivers through his body.

He hears his breathing reverberate in the small space. If he raises his hands, he can trace the outline of the box they've put him in.

He's okay. This is okay.

It's very dark.

It doesn't matter if his eyes are open or closed. He sees the same blackness either way. When he puts one hand in front of his face, nothing changes.

He can't remember the last time he was in such total darkness.

The cold pricks at him in an uncomfortable way. After being in here for a while, his jacket doesn't seem to do any good. He's chilled to the bone by the metal that surrounds him on all sides, stealing his warmth.

It's fine, though. Sam said it wouldn't be for long.

He told them he would be fine. And he can be. For Sam. For Dean.

They want to help him. Even after Mary, after what he did, they still want to help him get better. All they asked him to do was wait in this box. Just until they had a solution.

He can do that. After what he did, he can do anything they ask. Lying here, safe inside, while the people he loves most try to help him. It should be easy. He's a big kid. He can handle it.

It's just so dark.

He told them he would be okay. He smiled and laid in the box without a fuss. He suspected his smile was just as strained as theirs obviously were. Jack could read the worry in Sam's expression. The lines on his forehead were practically a permanent fixture, but Jack could tell Sam was especially stressed about their plan.

Jack would hate to seal Sam up inside a box, too. He can't imagine watching Sam crawl into a box that looks too much like a coffin. Closing the lid behind him. Latching it shut from the outside. How much would it hurt him, to do that to Sam?

Or to Dean—when Jack heard what Dean was planning to do with Michael, he'd felt sick to his stomach. He can't imagine what this must be like for them. To watch him get in, and have to shut him inside. However temporary the arrangement is.

Even though this is what's best for Jack, he knows it has to be hard for them. He wants to make it as easy as possible.

But it's dark.

Oh. His phone. He grabs it and flicks it on, filling the black with bluish light.

There. That's better.

He's still cold, and the space is still small, but he can see now. He can see, and he'll be okay until they come get him.

How long has it been? How much longer will it be?

Sam said not long. Does that mean a few minutes? A few hours? Days?

Are they still in here with him? Are they just waiting for Castiel to bring a final ingredient?

"Sam." His voice is quiet, nearly soundless inside this box. Jack mouths the word over and over, wishing, hoping, to hear Sam's voice answer back. Sam's kind presence, his reassurance, has gotten him through so much.

Sam finding him in an alleyway, just days after his birth. Your mom though you were. So did Cas. So do I.

Sam kneeling next to him in a corner of the library. None of that was your fault. You're not evil, Jack.

Sam stumbling into the apocalypse camp, covered in blood with his eyes full of fear. Immediately Jack's heart flooded with relief and feelings of safety.

Sam's arms around him, holding as he sagged onto the floor of that church. I got you, Jack. I got you. Jack closed his eyes and turned away from the corpse of his father.

Sam speaking earnestly to him about Nick—he's not Lucifer. I know he's not. You don't have to go anywhere near him if you don't want to. But he's not going to hurt you. Thinking about Nick, the man with his father's face, made Jack sick to his stomach. Once to the point where he'd stumbled into his room and choked up his last meal.

Sam had been there for him then, too. Rubbed his back, made him drink some water, and tucked him into bed. Smiled a tense, strained smile when Jack worried that he was pulling Sam away from his research. Don't say that. You're important to me, too.

Sam giving Jack his trademark bracing smile as Jack lowered himself into the box. Jack, we got this.

"Sam," Jack whispers aloud. His voice cracks. The silence is starting to hurt.

If he lets the quiet ring too long, doubts will start screaming again. They don't love you. They'll never forgive you. They're not going to let you out of this box.

"No," he grunts. They wouldn't. Sam wouldn't.

Even so, the thought roots in his mind, the poisonous tendrils spreading throughout his body, wrapping around his limbs and searing little singes in his composure.

It wouldn't be long. It won't be long. He won't have to wait much more.

They're not coming back. They're going to leave you down here.

Sam said they're working on it. Sam said.

Maybe they'll bury you in this box. Bury you alive. Or maybe toss you in the ocean, like Dean wanted.

Sam wouldn't. He loves me. Dean wouldn't. He forgave me.

They can lie, you know. They can lie and you can't. How could you tell if they were lying.

Jack doesn't feel the cold anymore. Numbness has soaked through his bones, leaving him with only the fear burning through him, making his heart dance and his stomach throb.

How could he tell if they moved him? He could be in their dungeon by now. Or in the middle of the woods. Or at the bottom of a mile-deep pit. Miles from anyone. From Sam.

"Sam," he breathes again. The way his mouth curls around the word feels wrong. Saying it feels wrong. Leaves a black taste in his mouth.

Not long. Not long. Jack, we got this. He tries to drill the words into his ears.

I don't care. He's family.

They said. They said.

It's so dark.

What happens next? For someone…like me?

I don't know.

Each breath explodes from him, clanging off the walls. A cacophony of hysteria.

Something was off. Their smiles. The dead in Dean's eye. The tension in Sam's shoulders. Not long.

I love you. I love all of you.

He didn't see it. He couldn't. He trusted them.

His fingers press on the lid, bracing, straining. It creaks back at him like a reprimand. Doesn't move.

The sigils glare at him in the dim light. This box deadens his power. He's trapped in here, truly trapped, unless someone comes to rescue him.

It's not the first time he's been trapped somewhere, needing rescue. Apocalypse world, after Lucifer stole his grace, the demon showdown in Detroit, Michael's werewolves kidnapping him and throwing him in the back of a van.

Each time, Sam had been there to keep him safe. Sam always rushed to Jack's aid without hesitation back then. Why should now be any different?

Except.

He hadn't killed Sam's mother yet.

A whimper escapes his lips. Could this really be it?

He's killed people. He's got a lot of blood on his hands.

I know what it feels like. To feel like you don't belong To feel like there's this darkness inside of you. To be scared of who you are, what you can do.

I love you, Jack. I love you so much. You are gonna be…amazing.

"Mom," he whispers, plaintive. "Mom."

They wouldn't. They did.

Cold hot quiet loud dark light havetogetout

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